The Game
by positivelynegative
Summary: House is playing a game. R&R please
1. Chapter 1

Alright, sorry for the mistakes aaaaaaand I don't own so don't sue me. I just wanted to write this one, don' t know why... o well. Tell me what you think!

* * *

I've played this game so many times. Toss the cane, see if I can get it or if I have to half crawl half walk to retrieve it. It never was my favorite, made me feel like a dog playing fetch. I liked the one where I threw the Vicodin up in the air and caught the small white pill in my mouth. Much more rewarding, but I was also like a dog. Do a trick, get a treat. 

Woohoo.

I throw the cane across the room. I'm going to walk to it this time. No more doggy crawls. I take a swig of the bottle I'm holding and set it down on the nearest table, nearly falling over. Maybe I shouldn't have drank this much.

Alright, here we go…

Steady on my left, set down my right. First step, good.

I lift my left foot up of the ground and immediately regretting this stupid game of fetch. Painfully my knee buckles and I crash to the floor, white hot pain rolling through my thigh. Gripping the angry leg firmly, I reach into my pocket and pull out my Vicodin.

My little heroes.

Popping the top, I begin my favorite game. Catch the pill. I throw it up and watch it spin. It looks so pretty as it flies through the air, like a little swan… or that's just me. Whichever one, I miss completely. The first flies across the room. The second bounces off my forehead. The others didn't come near my mouth either. You would almost say a drunk could do better; but I am a drunk and I did no better. Oh well. I can still play the hand-to-mouth game; not as fun, but just as fulfilling.

After chewing three of the pills, the pain slowly slips away and I can breathe easier. Now where did I throw my cane?

There it is. Beside the chair, under the lamp.

Laying there.

Mocking me.

I scoot over to its resting place and grab it. The surface is smooth, but no matter how beautiful its maker wanted it, it was hideous.

I stay on the floor for a while, today's events running through my head and the reason for the beers I have drank.

Cuddy cut off my Vicodin, completely ignoring the inevitable. For my health, she said. Because the board is making me, she says. Because the wrong person saw you with your pills, she says. It doesn't matter what she says. I need that Vicodin or the pain will come back.

It can't come back.

Lucky for me, my magic little fingers snagged the bottle I keep hidden before she could raid my stash. This is my last bottle. Too many emergencies in the past.

I somehow maneuver myself up off the ground and sit on the chair behind me. The phone rings but I'm too lazy to get it. The machine will pick it up anyway. Wilson's voice soon fills the room. Poor, sober Wilson. He should come over and have a drink. Oh wait…

_"House, where are you?! You were supposed to be here an hour ago!"_

Oh yes. Today is... I glance at the clock... yup, still is, Wilson's birthday. And I was supposed to be at the restaurant with Cuddy and... other people I am too drunk to recall.

_"I really don't know what we're going to do with you..."_

I look over at the phone. The man is still talking! I need to get out of here. I stand up, stumbling slightly. Maybe I should wait a few seconds before I leave. A shower would be nice, maybe a cup of coffee. Then I will go out.

I walk to the bathroom, stopping to pick up the pills I threw. Can't waste these little lifesavers; I don't have that many left. I drop them one by one into the orange bottle and tighten the lid. I place the bottle on the less that tidy desk and limp to the bathroom. Wilson is still talking. He sounds pretty angry, guess I should be worried. But I'm a beer and a couple Vicodin past caring.

I step into the shower after shedding my clothes onto the floor. With the hot water on full blast, I begin to massage my thigh, trying to work out some of the pain.

Eventually, I give up on working the pain out and step out all pink. Guess I turned the water on too hot, I'm feeling a bit lightheaded. Or maybe that's just the alcohol talking. I grab the towel rack and pull a towel off. I dry off quickly and walk into my room for some clean clothes. Maybe I'll go to a bar. Maybe I'll just walk. Who knows?

I slip on my normal clothes; jeans and a t-shirt with my favorite sneakers. I walk out, grabbing the bottle of Vicodin and my coat and head out the door, cane at my side as always. Wilson has long stopped talking and I have forgotten about coffee.

The wind strikes my exposed face and instantly makes my eyes water. I wipe them and bypass my motorcycle. Crashing is not on my to-do list today.

I walk for who knows how long, past the young couples, the old couples, the young hopeful chasing the pretty girl, the girl and her cluster of friends... So many people oblivious to the real world, laughing their troubles away. The world where you don't get anywhere unless you backstab the person next to you, only saving yourself for another day of torture. I grab the Vicodin and pop the top, nearly stumbling into an older woman. She gave me a dirty look, but otherwise left me alone. I swallowed one of the pills dry and continued my walk.

My leg throbs. I really shouldn't be walking this much, but I can't seem to make myself stop. The cane is guiding me now.

It leads me to a bus stop. I get on, put my money in the little clear box, the clinking piercing through my head and reminding me that I have no idea where I'm going. I sit next to a man in headphones, his music running through the earphones and disturbing everyone around him. Why oh why did I pick this seat?

I would speak up, but I'm guessing he would figure that I had a bit too much to drink. And knowing me, I would say something stupid and get myself kicked off this forsaken bus to hell. Or maybe that's where I'm going anyway.

I nudge his foot with my cane, "Hey, can you turn it down? I don't really want to hear your depressed songs."

The guy stopped the song and slipped the earphones off, "What?"

"Could you turn it down?" I pronounce every word slowly. He doesn't take this as an offense. Instead, he stares at my cane.

"Oh, alright. Sorry." The music immediately stopped.

Well, if I wasn't going to get this guy angry, I might as well get off this tin can. The next stop, I stood up, swayed a bit and worked my way off the bus... okay, I hopped. Going down stairs isn't good on my leg. It began throbbing again. I popped another pill, not caring about how close I'm getting to OD-ing.

Great. Bus stop right next to a bridge. Might as well walk it. I turn to the right and begin walking across.

I stop in the middle and look around. This is a big bridge. I pull the orange bottle out. I'm down to my last two white pills. They look so lonely, but I don't take them out. Instead, I place the bottle on the ledge. I must be losing control of my body.

Looking around again, I see the bridge is basically deserted. All alone except for a few people that look like they would mug me without a second glance. What fun.

My cell phone rings, nearly giving me a heart attack. Why didn't I leave this at home? Fighting off the growing headache and nausea, I grab the phone out of my pocket and flip it open.

"Hello?"

_"House, where are you?"_ Wilson the worry-wart.

"No where. Give me a sec." I lean over the edge of the bridge and hold the phone as far away as I could as I emptied my stomach over the edge. Got that out of the way.

_"Are you drunk? Where are you? I'm at your apartment."_

"'Lil bit and what are you doing at my house?" Maybe this conversation would end with an angry Wilson and a few moments peace.

_"House, it's three in the morning, where are you?"_

I glance at my wrist and curse myself. Of all things, why did I forget my watch? "Is it really that late? Must of walked farther than I thought."

_"House," _he repeated slowly, _"where are you?"_

"Well, obviously not there."

_"House this is serious! I'm in your apartment. The police were here, they're looking for you!"_

When I don't answer, he calls my name again. I flip my phone closed and stare at the water. This is finally it for me. Cuddy won't commit perjury again, Wilson can't do anything. If they did, or could, I don't want to go through this again.

I don't want us to go through this again.

My leg is reminding me how much it hates me. I grab the Vicodin bottle and rattle it, its only two occupants singing a sad tune. I lean forward on the rail, the bottle still in my hand. I pop the top, but instead of swallowing the last two, I tip the bottle over and watch them drop. I watch them as they disappear, falling too far for me to see them hit the water. I want to see something hit the water.

I drop the bottle after them. It has lost its importance.

I drop my cell phone. Only a small splash, almost too small to see.

This game isn't fun anymore; I've dropped all I have to drop.

But my body is on autopilot again. The hands attached to my body grab my cane and begin a new game. I watch as my cane falls down into the water and makes its splash.

Go fetch.


	2. Chapter 2

Well, second installment of The Game. Anyway, do not own Scrubs or the theme song you find in here (I can't do this all on my own, no I know, I'm no Superman) and I do not own the Ron White joke (Hit me hard. I don't want to limp away from this). I do not own House, of course. So, that is that and this might suck, but that is O KAY. Sorry if grammar and things like that suck... it is late and I am not supposed to be up right now. On with the story!

* * *

Wilson paced the floor of the police chief' office waiting for word on House; be it where he was or… Wilson ran his hands through his hair and left them behind his head. He did not want to think about the many possibilities. House could have been mugged, he could be lost, he could be stuck somewhere unable to move until he was sober enough to get help. 

House could even be dead.

But those were bad thoughts, it was best to keep thinking and hoping for the best. Like a game, keep happy thoughts and your dreams will come true! Whoever hopes the most wins!

Call the game If Only.

After House had hung up, Wilson had gone with the police that had been looking for his friend. But should he even call House a friend? The man was a drug addict, he was the world's biggest jerk, the police were searching for him. Not the best kind of person to be chumming around with. Wilson sat down in one of the chairs in front of the hard wood desk; what had ever happened to his normal friends? Oh yes. House.

"Dr. Wilson?"

Wilson turned at the sound of his name. The police chief was standing in the doorframe holding a file. He stood and answered, "Yes?"

The chief, Bob Thomas, held out his hand and Wilson took it stiffly. Thomas cleared his throat and snorted, "Do you have a photo ID of Dr. House? We will need to get a missing person's report out as soon as possible."

Repulsed though not showing it, Wilson reached into his wallet. There he fished out an old picture of him, House, Cuddy and Stacey standing together in nice clothes in front of a nice restaurant. It was, of course, the only picture of House that he had and it was over five years old. Everyone's face was beaming, except House, though there was a ghost of a smile in his eyes.

"It's a little old, but he hasn't changed much."

Thomas took the picture and slipped it into the file, "Alright Dr. Wilson, you are free to leave. We'll keep you updated."

Wilson thanked him, avoided the handshake, and left. On the way out he flipped his cell out and tried House once again.

* * *

"This the guy?" 

"Yup."

_If only..._ blue eyes that were aware of their mistake only after the water hit breathed out.

* * *

Wilson angrily snapped his phone closed. Where was House? He tossed his phone on his bed. He paced the room quickly and cracked his knuckles. Where was House? 

He flopped himself onto his bed miserably and thought deliriously, 'And on my birthday too.'

He sat up again and grabbed the remote, flipping the television on. He furiously clicked through channels, not stopping to see what was on. Woman. Fish. Lava. Stocks. Infomercial. Rosie O'Donnell. He flinched when a gun when off in a drama and quickly changed it again. He stopped for a moment when he heard the theme song to one of his personal favorites.

_I can't do this all on my own, no I know, I'm no Superman._

He chuckled to himself; the x-ray behind the show's title was backwards. He lay the button down slowly and allowed himself to laugh at the comedy.

He watched until he was jolted out of his comedy-induced stupor by his cell phone ringing loudly. Hastily he grabbed it and snapped it open, "House?"

He heard a sigh on the other end of the line, "Dr. Wilson, this is Bob Thomas. I'm going to need you to come down to the station… we found him."

Wilson sat silent for a few minutes, then finally was able to choke out, "H-how is he?"

"I'm sorry to inform you that Dr. House was found dead."

The police chief's last words rung in Wilson's ear; they seemed to bounce around in his head, leaving his mind then boomeranging back to remind him of the devastation.

Wilson was unaware that the man on the other end of the line had stopped speaking until he heard his name shouted into his ear. "I'm sorry… what?"

Thomas snorted again and Wilson cringed, "Sir, I'm going to need you to come down and identify the body."

Wilson, mind still reeling, managed a sorry sounding, "Kay."

He flipped the phone closed and sat numbly. This was so… surreal. House couldn't die. House was supposed to be the constant. The one everyone hated was always the one to die last!

Wilson shot up and began to pull at his hair while stalking the room. How could House do this? Didn't he know… "Didn't he know I cared?" Wilson spoke aloud. Helplessly, Wilson let his hands drop to his sides. He walked to the door, grabbing his keys on the way out.

His hand was rested on the doorknob when he whirled around, flinging the cell phone as hard as he could into the far wall, making a crack in the wall and shattering the phone.

'Don't kill the messenger…' he thought as he ripped the door open. Well, the messenger was dead along with the wall.

Wilson jammed his keys into the ignition and, with a flick of his wrist, started the car. He didn't bother to look when he pulled out and he speed out of the parking lot, barely avoiding one of those cursed trucks.

Hit me hard. I don't want to limp away from this.

Wilson pulled into the lot of the police station. This didn't seem real. It was all a dream… maybe a cruel joke. Ha ha! Happy birthday Wilson! We sure got you good.

If only.

After jamming the car into park, Wilson prepared himself to open the door. He was about to pull the handle when, without warning, his head dropped to the steering wheel.

'I'm so tired…'

He remembered nothing after that.

* * *

Wilson's head shot up. How long had he been asleep? Was this terrible dream for real? He looked at the clock. Twenty minutes; thirty minutes since hell started. 

He felt his face and looked in the rearview mirror. No tears; maybe House really wasn't dead. Surely he would have cried at least a little bit. No tears but a long read indention from the wheel in his forehead.

Wilson slowly opened the door and stepped out, rubbing his head furiously to try and get rid of the mark.

All the way to the door, his footsteps echoed, _not real not real not real…_ But no tears.

All the way to the morgue, _not real not real not real…_ A straight face.

Only when he stepped into the cold room and the drawer which held House slid open with a long as sad and steady _reaaaaaaaaaaaal _did the first cloud pass over Wilson's eyes and a rain of tears fell.

If only.

* * *

So, what do you people think? It was suggested that I continue, so I did. Aren't I great? Anyways, review please! 


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